


Someone Speaks Softly

by Rotpeach



Series: Goretober 2016 [6]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Bad Haiku, Goretober 2016, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: You think you're dying. Akira agrees.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for goretober day 18 "execution"
> 
> this was kind of a return to my roots in style lol 
> 
> i want to do more of these but im not usually in the right mood for them

This is a place of poetry, if only you were a poet.

But you are not; not now, head spinning and heartbeat slowing and a bone-deep terrible pain radiating through you, prickling at your wrists and underarms where experimental incisions have been carefully stitched shut.  You can’t move your hand but you can still feel it, and it seems like it’s burning or maybe freezing, something unpleasant and far too much, so you try to distract yourself with the poetry all around you but you can hardly string a phrase together, much less a brief haiku.

Your eyes are attuned to lab lighting now, painful fluorescent white and experimental ultraviolet; you can’t remember the sun.  And if there were someone here to talk to, maybe they’d find such a statement dramatic but you’d insist it’s the truth.  You don’t know if you’ve been here a few hours or a few months, because there is no concept of time here, no indication of the passing of days but Sano’s erratic schedule and Akira’s occasional visits, and every moment since you first stepped foot here blurs together into a long eternity.

_ (Obsidian tongues _

_ Drip brutal honesty and _

_ Make no promises) _

Sano watches, not in concern but in curiosity, as you struggle to sit up when he asks you to.  “Having difficulty moving?” he asks, writing something down.

You mean to answer but your throat is dry and your body is weak, and you don’t want to turn away from the ceiling, plain and unpainted and beautiful in its simplicity.  With the lights dimmed and your vision swimming, you think you can imagine a night sky, can see yourself beneath constellations and rivers of stars, can taste a warm night breeze that is sweet somehow.

Sano slaps you, leaving a stinging mark on your cheek.  “You’re delirious,” he says. “Pay attention.”

You can’t.  You try to tell him.  You can’t.

It was just a mistake, you’d like to say, not that it makes a difference now, it was just a fatal case of curiosity that should never have been quite so literally fatal, an infatuation and a starry-eyed, lust-at-first-sight sort of connection one makes in a split second, too quickly for reason to catch up.  Akira had smiled,

(And his smile was like the sun that was just as bright as this room, perhaps even brighter and far warmer)

and led you by the hand, and you know it wasn’t his fault but can’t help but feel that he owes you something.  

( _ “You see,” the young lord says, “you mustn’t go near this jar.  It contains a potent poison that will surely kill you.”   _

Why do you think of that story now?  You don’t know why, but you do,  _ you are the servant on the porch who watches the young lord leave with a naive confidence in your heart, certain that you understand all there is to be understood in this simple world, and you are wrong, wrong, wrong. _ )

“Can you hear me?” Sano asks, sounding just a bit irritated. “If you can’t speak, nod your head.”

(You miss the sun.  You miss being warm—not  _ hot _ , not in the heart of an inferno and trying to find a cool spot to breathe—you miss the comfort of a bed and the soft touch of someone who does not want to hurt you.  You miss him.

_ The jar is labeled clearly, reads “aconite” in hand-painted calligraphy, elegant and ominous.  You know what you’re doing.  You know what you want. _ )

You wet your lips, inhale and start to cough.  Your throat feels swollen and sore.  “Where,” you choke, “Where’s your brother?”

You expect anger, and, indeed, his eyes narrow, but he asks, “You want to see him?”

You nod.

(“Why’re you going home with strangers, anyway?” Akira had asked you, reclining on his side, one hand running through your hair. “Not judging, just curious. I’m obviously doing the same thing.”

You’d shrugged. “You could ask what I was doing at that club. Why I was dressed like that. It all boils down to the same thing.”

( _ I give myself to  _

_ The tide that comes into shore _

_ Swallowing this love _ )

Akira’s mischievous smile lessened a bit as he took in your expression. “You’re looking to forget about something?”

Honestly, you were surprised he picked up on it at all. Slowly, you nodded.

He cupped your cheek and looked you in the eye with a solemn expression. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “I do that, too, sometimes.”)

You don’t expect Sano to actually heed your request, but the next thing you know, the door is opening and Akira is standing over you, eyes filling with pity. “Hey,” he says, forcing a smile, “I guess this is where you went.”

You manage a weak laugh.

(“What are you trying to forget?” he’d asked you.

“I don’t really want to say.” You looked away. “What about you?”

Akira chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s not really fair, is it?”

“Guess not.”

He sat up, the sheets falling off of his body, but his movement lacked all of the playfulness and sensuality it held before. He held out a hand, smiling sadly. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just keep forgetting, okay?”)

If you had the strength, you’d take his hand. “I think I think I’m dying,” you say.

Akira’s gaze moves down your arms and legs, over stitches and scars and bruises. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “I think that’s probably true.”

His eyes are gray like ice-covered statues, like cold steel, like a moon curtained by dark clouds.  _ Poetry. _

“I want to die like this,” you tell him. “Looking at you.” 

He looks at the floor. You think he feels guilty. You don’t want that.

“Akira,” you call softly. “Just...one more time, okay? Help me forget one more time. That’s all I care about right now.”

(“I’m supposed to be working on my dissertation right now,” you admitted.

Akira raised a brow. “That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”

“Not really.” When he didn’t move quickly enough for you, you crawled on top of him and pressed your lips against is, and tried to think about nothing. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured against his skin, “Nothing matters anymore.”

Akira’s hold on your hips seemed tighter the second time around, but it could’ve just been your imagination.)

He has a gun with him, and even though your heart leaps into your throat at the sight of the barrel, you tell yourself that this is for the best. This is what you want.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and guide his aim to your forehead. “Don’t be.”

_ (The young lord’s precious vase is shattered upon the floor and you are filled with dread, knowing you have made a terrible mistake, that the pain he will cause you upon his return will be a fate worse than death. You turn to the jar of poison and tearfully pull it down from the shelf, and the first mouthful goes down easily. It is sweet, you think through your tears with a hint of confusion. _

_ You didn’t know death could be so sweet.) _

_ (Hidden from the sun _

_ The snake bites the caged warbler _

_ And lies down to weep) _


End file.
